


Raised in penance

by cuneifire



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Homophobia, M/M, Religion, Repression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 03:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14392998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuneifire/pseuds/cuneifire
Summary: He prays Spain will never see his sins. He prays to God, he prays for forgiveness.Forgiveness he will not receive, least of all from himself.





	Raised in penance

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Deals with religious topics that may be controversial to some. This is not intended to offend anyone of any certain faith or lack thereof. Opinions of the characters are not necessarily that of the author’s.

1885

.

The fire streams smoke, tendrils of it choking the small shed in which Romano sits near the back of. The light reflects into his eyes, almost hurting with how bright it is.

He reaches over, and tosses another stick into the hungry flames, letting them come up higher. Above them dangles in his hand, a cross.

It reflects dimmed yellow at him, glinting at odd directions. It’s hot from hanging for so many hours, just above the flames. Hot, but not melting.

It’s silver, bought in a time when silver was invaluable to the point of ridiculousness, carved with all the intricacy and delicacy the times could afford. It was also the most expensive thing Romano owned.

And here he was, in the back of some damned blacksmith’s shop, contemplating throwing it in the fire.

His arms ached from holding the cross for so long, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull it back down. His hand was sweaty and hot from clenching the sliver chain for so long, but he didn’t, _couldn’t_ let it go.

 _Fucking Spain._ He thought as he heard the fire crackle. _Damned bastard._ He thought, trying to ignore the way the thought of Spain made his heart pound, squeezing his eyes shut and setting his jaw.

 _It’s easy, Romano._ He can hear in the various voices of so many priests he’s talked to in his life, all the advice he’d garnered from being unable to repent this, unable to repent despite his confessions.

 _You just have to choose Christ._ They’d said, and in those moments it would be so clear. Put the cross back on, never take it off, never look at Spain like that again. Never think of him like Romano so often did, never stare up at the ceiling, fingers running over his cross, trying to keeps his thoughts and hands from wandering.

And in those moments, he would. In those moments, all his feelings for Spain seemed the height of ridiculousness. Feelings for another man- and _fucking Spain_ of all people, goddamn if that wasn’t salt to the already centuries old wound.

In those moments, he’d forget that he could remember Spain’s smile from memory, map all his features in a heartbeat. He’d forget all the times he’d leaned closer when Spain was talking, even though he didn’t need to, just to see his eyes more clearly, smell that scent he always carried (grass, dirt, tomatoes, and something else that was entirely Spain’s- he called it sunshine, but it wasn’t really that. It was more like- he cuts himself off.)

He’d forget that he’d loved Spain for so long, the idea of going without that rush in his chest whenever the idiot walked in made his lips twist, his fingers curl, his chest constrict. He’d almost, just almost, forget the night he’d finally given into his heathenish desire and broken so many of his church’s rules, just for the thought of that, of Spain taking him, touching him.

The cross almost slipped, just missing the lick of the flames. He scrambled to pull it back up, fingers almost missing the chain.

He sighed with relief. He couldn’t imagine what he’d do without his cross, without his religion.

_(He couldn’t imagine what he’d do without Spain either. )_

Romano shoved the thought aside. He’d do fine without that bastard- he was his own country now. He was fine.

 _You just have to make the right choice,_ on priest- maybe five years ago- had said, and Romano had been clenching the bottom of the stiff wooden seat of the confession booth, teeth gritted in agony.

Because he hadn’t known which choice was right.

 _Drop it._ A voice said, somewhere from the back of his mind that he tried to keep pressed in the back of his thoughts. _What has religion done for you anyways, other than keep you from things you want?_

He almost gasped at that, immediately berating himself for the thought. _Blasphemy is a sin,_ he reminded himself, trying to keep his sore arm from shaking and dropping the cross into the fire.

_So is swearing. So is thinking yourself better than those around you. So is loving another man._

_You do it anyways._

His hand trembles.

“No.” He whispers, letting the chain dangle off his pointer finger.

“No.” he repeats, staring into the flames, wondering how fast it would take for them to properly devour silver, how hot they’d have to be, how his cross would look after being melted in a thousand degree heat-

“NO!” He almost yells, finally, after hours, standing up, legs aching from cramping below his makeshift seat, hand searing hot from its time next to the flames.

He snatches back the cross, cradles it to his chest. _I’m sorry,_ he whispers a silent prayer to God, dropping to his knees, pulling the silver chain over his head and doing the symbol of the cross.

 _Wait._ That’s his left hand. What the f-

He shakes himself, trying to block out the thoughts. _Awful, blasphemous, a disgrace to the Lord-_

He switches hands, exhaling as he finally, finally, does something right.

His prayers is quick, as fast as _Signore, perdonami per i miei peccati,_ _mi dispiace, mi dispiace, non li ripeterò._

The last part is a lie, he knows as he gets up to walk out of this crapsack shop, trying to push the creeping thought to the back of his mind. He barely knows where he is, he’s been here so long.

He leaves the fire, and wonders, will one final glance to its now dying flames, if this makes him a coward.

He closes his eyes, and sees nothing but a memory of Spain smiling at him, excitedly saying his name and pulling him close, Romano’s heart threatening to beat out of his chest, the way Spain’s fingers would just lightly trail down his back and how badly Romano would want to lean in, pull him down and finally, finally, _kiss_ him.

And as he turns to leave, he thinks that yes, this makes him a coward.

Regardless of which way.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Signore, perdonami per i miei peccati, mi dispiace, mi dispiace, non li ripeterò.- Lord, pardon me for my sins, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I will not repeat them.  
> -The Catholic Church, at least in the modern day, does not outright condemn ‘homosexual attractions’, differentiating them from ‘homosexual acts’ which are indeed a sin, and people who commit them are encouraged to repent.  
> \- Homosexuality has actually been legal in Italy since 1890, but up until then, after unification, most of the country was under the laws of the Former Kingdom of Sardinia, which established the law of criminalizing homosexuality in 1859, except in the Kingdom of the Two Silicies, which took up most of Southern Italy (in short; it was legal to be gay in South Italy but not North. Go figure.) And although this take place only a few years away from that, I figured this fic was more about Romano and his personal relation with religion than the whole of South Italy.  
> -Also, silver’s melting point is actually 961.8 degrees Celsius, not a thousand. And yes, it’s in Celsius, because Italy’s been using metric since 1862 ...But it doesn’t really matter. Just in case you wanted to know.  
> -Italy was unified in 1861.  
> -Practitioners of Catholicism often do the symbol of the cross. It is very bad form to do it with your left hand.  
> Feedback is always appreciated!


End file.
